Being pushed to break the rules of the game is never pleasant. There's something sticky and intrusive about it, as if you're being offered not help, but a deal with something you can't clean up later.
I remembered how the same thing happened to Katsu three years ago. Then everything started completely innocuously: he just decided to take care of himself, pump up, strengthen his body, feel confident.
He signed up for a nearby gym, and at first, everything went surprisingly smoothly.
Katzu quickly got into the routine, performing each exercise with dedication, listening to the coaches' advice, and even starting to receive praise from others. It seemed like he was finally achieving results and gaining self-respect.
But then, everything changed.
One day, after a workout, as he was about to leave the gym, he was approached by some local bodybuilders, big guys that everyone in the gym knew. They spoke quietly, with that false friendliness that always smelled of calculation.
—Do you want to progress faster?
One of them asked, taking a small bottle out of his sports bag.
—Don't worry, it's safe. It just speeds up the results.
Katzu thought for a moment. He wanted to be stronger, better, faster. But in their eyes, he saw not support, but something else, a cold interest, as if they were testing whether he would break or hold up.
He refused.
He said, briefly and calmly, that he didn't need "quick solutions to all problems." In their eyes, something changed immediately mockery, slight contempt, as if he had fallen below them. But inside, Katzu felt a strange relief.
The next day, he never returned to the hall.
For the money he earned in one of the game matches, the ones where victory depended not on strength, but on intelligence and endurance, he bought his own sports equipment.
Dumbbells, a bench, and a pull-up bar. It was simple, without any glitz. He began to train on his own, in the quiet of his apartment, where no one offered any shortcuts.
Staring into the void, I found myself lost in thought, as if old memories were flashing before my eyes.
"No pill, no supplement will make your body truly stronger. It's all just an illusion. An illusion of progress that you'll have to pay for with your health. True strength grows slowly, step by step, when you don't chase results but simply do your work day after day."
I knew this all too well. In a world where everyone wanted to be stronger, faster, and better, those who took the shortcut often found themselves trapped.
The same thing happened with the Coyotes guild.
Once upon a time, they were just an ordinary group of players, not outstanding, but determined.
However, the guildmaster's ambitions turned their path into a relentless race. He wanted to be the first at any cost, and he was willing to do anything to achieve his goal: using forbidden artifacts, engaging in unfair deals, and employing suspicious enhancements.
His every move was not focused on growth but rather on showcasing his power. But power that comes easily always breaks first.
I sighed, remembering the words Katz had once said: "Just because you're wearing a crown doesn't mean you're a king. Sometimes it's just an extra weight that makes it harder to see when you've already fallen."
It seemed that the guildmaster of the Coyotes was wearing just such a crown. And in my opinion, it was high time for him to remove it before it crushed those beneath him.
Zikei was not one of those players who are willing to beat people up for not doing things the way he wanted them to.
In this game, people can be real, even when they're playing as darkness. It gives them a real thrill.
He wanted to put his former clan in its place, because there were no players playing this game anymore, and they weren't enjoying it the way they used to. It was a dull simulation with no truth to it.
Even if for Zikei in the past, his former guild master was important to him. It looked different now. The guild master of the Coyotes Guild wanted Zikei's head to get even with him.
That's why we decided to get into the situation, and not only in a figurative sense. We knew that talking to the Coyotes could be dangerous, but it was too late to back down.
We could only go ahead and hope that luck would be on their side this time.
As we approached the guild's residence, the air seemed to grow heavier.
The building where the Coyotes were located looked like a fortress: angular, gloomy, with metal inserts on the windows and logos that resembled scars. Red and black emblems glittered at every turn: on the walls, on the flags, even on the floor, as if to remind everyone that this was their territory.
—Hospitable...
Elk chuckled, looking around.
—Too much.
I replied, feeling a chill run down my spine.
Within minutes, the mercenaries approached them, silent, wearing identical bulletproof vests and with impassive faces adorned with red skulls. One of them gestured for them to follow.
The squad's footsteps echoed down the seemingly endless corridor.
The only sound was the faint hum of the ventilation system and the muffled sounds of training coming from somewhere far behind the wall.
At the end of the corridor, we were stopped in front of a massive black door adorned with an emblem, a wolf's mouth with red eyes. For a moment, it seemed as if the eyes were actually glowing.
—We've arrived, and it's up to you from here.
Zikei stepped forward.
He looked calm, but I could tell from the tension in his shoulders that he was ready for the worst. He raised his hand and knocked on the door three times.
A dull sound echoed down the hallway, as if someone had struck iron.
There was a brief silence. Then there was a click of locks from behind the door, one, two, three. The canvas slowly opened inward, and an office opened in front of them.
There was almost deathly silence in the large office. The air here was thick, like in a museum of old weapons, and it smelled of metal, dust, and something faintly sharp, perhaps blood soaked into the wood.
They decided to install an interesting game scent here.
Sitting behind the massive table was a man I had never seen before. He didn't say a word, but his presence was immediately oppressive, as if the room had less air.
At first glance, one might think he was just a collector of weapons, but a closer look dispelled any doubts.
Hanging on the walls behind him, at a specific angle, was a collection of swords, sabers, and épée, ranging from antique to clearly modern models.
Each blade was polished to a mirror-like shine, as if they had not just been displayed for show, but had been used recently.
I felt that the guildmaster's specialty was swordsmanship, and he was strong, and my shoulders tensed at the sight.
As we approached, the man slowly stood up. The light from the lamp shone on his face, and I couldn't help but hold my breath.
His silver hair fell down his shoulders in smooth, heavy strands, as if it were reflecting the light itself. And his eyes... his eyes were red, not from fatigue or lenses, but truly red, like hot coals beneath a thin layer of ash.
There was something about him that reminded me of a theatrical villain, but there was also something more, a sense of a predator who was used to observing his prey before taking the first step.
He didn't rush to speak. Instead, he nodded slightly, taking in the guests as if weighing each one individually.
The silence was broken by Zikei. He took a step forward and, despite the tension, smiled with the corner of his mouth, not out of joy, but rather out of a habit of hiding fear behind audacity.
—Hello, Valentin, it's been a while.
The name hung heavy in the air, like an old debt that had suddenly resurfaced.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile flashed across the guildmaster's face, as cold as a blade.
—Zikei... I had hoped you wouldn't show up again.